


our lives umbilical

by duchamp



Category: Logan (2017) - Fandom, Marvel, X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 09:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10303268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchamp/pseuds/duchamp
Summary: She hears her father say her name. He says it and it’s simple; attempt at groping for final, parting words which are meaningful—which will hold weight and bring comfort. But it’s also bedtime stories, birthday celebrations, school plays, report cards, dinner at the table set for two. It’s everything they should have but are never going to get.





	

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mouthful of earth, hair half a century silvering, who buried him.  
With what. Make a fist for heart. That is the size of it.  
                                                         Also directives from our  DNA.   
The nature of his wound was the clock-cicada winding down.   
                                                         He wound down.

LUCIE BROCK-BROIDO

 

 

 

 

 

 

When she turns eighteen she changes her last name.

It’s been ‘Kinney’ for the past seven years; the moniker she’s worn since being settled within foster care. But now she’s of age, legally an adult, and she wants something new.

“I don’t think it’s the best idea,” Rictor says, concern in his voice—laced with incredulity, too.

“We’ve seen nothing of Transigen for so long.” Laura can’t look at him. Can’t stand his disappointment. He’s always been like an older brother to her. And, right now, he thinks she’s being stupid. Thinks she’s putting their entire makeshift family at risk. Despite the fact they’re scattered, separated. Only making contact every once in awhile.

“Because we’ve been smart,” Rictor stresses. “ _You_ have been smart.”

Laura allows his advice, then throws it out. Wants at least one thing for herself, keeping her head down and her shoulders hunched for so long. Staying unseen, hidden.

She takes her father’s surname. It’s the only tie she has left to him. ‘Howlett’ is what appears on her driver’s license instead of ‘Kinney.’ On her passport, her papers. It’s something of her _own_.

She almost can’t manage to care if Transigen’s constituents in Canada—people like that always have friends everywhere, if you pay them enough; whether they’re sanctioned by the government or not—come knocking.

 

 

 

They don’t.

(Maybe her worth as an investment, as a patented product, has depleted. At least, that’s what she hopes.)

 

 

 

His life wet on her skin, bleeding slick and horror and too many things to say with too little time left to them. “Laura. _Laura_.” Rasped breath falling out, ash from a cigarette butt, the failing of a car’s engine, sputtering machinery and crunching brakes.

She hears her father say her name. He says it and it’s simple; attempt at groping for final, parting words which are meaningful—which will hold weight and bring comfort. But it’s also bedtime stories, birthday celebrations, school plays, report cards, dinner at the table set for two. It’s everything they should have but are never going to get.

“Daddy.” She wishes she could hold him together with her bare hands and brute strength. She has so much to her—feeling, power, rage—but none of it is going to solve _this_.

He goes with his hand dwarfing hers, a loosening hold.

She wakes at twenty-six, the memory dissipating and she wants to go back; to be with him for just awhile more, to feel protected, to feel loved.

She conjures him up so many times. His ghost is a constant and she prefers it that way. She’s never lonely, then.

 

 

 

She learns things—from age eleven to now.

She learns about other kids. _Normal_ kids. The lives they lead and the friends they have and the things they do.

She learns she likes school, when she eventually enrolls.

She learns she likes double-chocolate ice cream.

She learns she likes to dip hot, crispy fries into bulbous scoops of it.

She learns how to fill out a college application. (She gets in. Graduates.)

She learns how to be still, how to inhabit a peaceful space.

 

 

 

Sometimes the fact that he lasted as long as he did, fought as hard as he did, astounds.

And Laura scrambles. Searches for a how, a why. Reads about hysterical strength, about human mothers lifting cars off their children. Sees the dismissals from doctors, talk of how these examples of paranormal vigor are so far beyond the pale of what science knows or can understand.

But Laura’s witnessed first hand evidence of it. Her father was sick. Being poisoned from the inside out, his own body rebelling against him. Weak and, while not frail, hardly a match for the mirror creation Transigen had conceived. And yet he’d managed to persist. To stand his ground for far longer than what should have been possible given the state he was in.

Love like that is still such an arcane concept to Laura. Something far from tangible, experienced for such a brief time, unable to be reached again.

She’s been through multiple foster homes before coming of age. And while having a roof over her head and a place to sleep was always a blessing, it never amounted to representing affection or closeness. All of her guardians were despondent. Only concerning themselves with providing the essentials. And when Laura came across as too quiet— her earliest foster mother called her mute and stupid—she was sent packing somewhere else.

 

 

 

The money she makes as a full-time barista is hardly enough to pay the bills, but she scrapes by. Also freelancing as a translator on the side; the only profession her English degree has gone toward. There are just too many graduates and not enough jobs.

There’s a pressure to it all—living. Trying to obtain normalcy and consistency. Trying to be successful. For every accomplishment, for every failure, she’s reminded of those who are in the ground so that she might be above it. A woman of warmth, turned still and cold, sitting in a chair. A man with a kind face and a pale complexion disappearing as soon as she’d seen him. A curled figure in the back of a pickup truck.

Eyes—desperate and glazed and trying to focus on hers while their owner lets out his last breath.

 

 

 

“You happy?” Rictor asks her when he comes to visit on her birthday.

“I don’t know,” Laura answers.

 

 

 

There’s a voice that keeps her company from state to state, from city to city. His name is Charles. Reed thin but still clear, he tells her who he is, who she is, who they are. Mutants. I’m like your friends, he says. I’m going to help you.

He sends her images, too. Of where he lives, the area surrounding.

Then, once, an impressionistic burst is sent; containing such feeling that Laura feels her chest clog up with it.

It’s a man. Hunched, back bent a little oddly. He has a limp. Grey hair, a beard. He looks tired. He looks sad. Papá, the voice in her head says, corresponding the word with the image.

_Papá_.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Logan_ was… I can’t even properly articulate how much that film means, and how I hope it inspires other media in the genre to maybe take a chance once in awhile and create something new. Meanwhile, I’ll just wait here on my hands and knees for my Laura Kinney standalone. Find me on [Tumblr](http://highsmith.tumblr.com/).


End file.
